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It’s the biggest shopping day of the year. Millions upon millions of dollars will be spent by millions upon millions of people–all trying to get the perfect gift for somebody. It’s a nice thought, really. So many people enduring so much for their loved ones. However, as we all know, the road to hell is paved in good intentions–and great bargains.

—

My brother, Nick, and I arrive at Target at around 5am. It’s cold, around 40 degrees. There are already a few hundred people in a line stretching across the front of the store. We take our place at the end of the line, which is by this time twenty or thirty yards from the entrance. CAN’T WAIT FOR THE BARGAINS!

Six minutes pass. This sucks. I want to go home.

I hear a man screaming in the distance, I get to my feet and peek around the crowd to see who it’s coming from.

I’m pleasantly surprised to see that Target has employed the services of local madman Jeepers McGinley, who has abandoned his usual “The End Is NEAR” sign to make a quick buck. (I later learned that this Jeepers was in no way affiliated with the Target Corporation and was, in fact, trying to be ironic. It was completely lost on me, as I bought every single item on that board.)

The manager is seen approaching the doors. People get to their feet and quietly shuffle as close to the front of the line as they can. There’s an audible rise in tension as aggressive murmurs sprout so ubiquitously that it seems the air itself is whispering its appeals for haste. I hear the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked. Then I hear the sound of a cannon ball being lowered into a cannon’s shaft. This confuses me and I take a moment to look for the weirdo who brought the cannon.

Ah, okay. This guy.

I begin to ask the guy where he got his cannon, because I also have a few thousand dollars that I’d like to spend on absolute bull shit, but before I can get it out, my brother brusquely grabs my arm.

“It’s go time.”

“What?” He’s started pulling me forward. I begin to hear screaming in the distance.

“Keep your knees high. It’ll keep you from tripping over the fallen.”

“Wait, the fallen? Like people?!”

“Yes Kyle, fallen people.”

“Ah, okay.” I take a second to slip on my mob cleats and continue pressing forward. As we enter the store, the sound of a cannon firing rings out with a sound like the thunder of a storm that’s just overhead.

“Was that a cannon?” Nick asks.

“Yea. It belongs to this guy who looks a lot like Jennifer Lopez with a mustache.” I look back toward the entrance. “There’s no way he didn’t kill at least five or six people. You think we should call the cops or someth–”

“DEXTER DVD’S!” Nick yells. He runs up to the display, but it’s blocked by a woman and her cart, which is already full of goods. Nick grabs the cart and pushes it as hard as he can down the aisle.

“My cart!” the woman yells, and begins to run after her rolling presents.

“Ah crap. I already have this season,” Nick says, puts the DVD back, and begins to walk towards the clothes. In the distance, the woman seems to have fallen down and is being drug by her carts powerful momentum.

More explosions can be heard from across the store. I remark at how quickly that tiny man was able to mobilize his cannon. Then my mind stumbles across a horrific possibility: What if there’s more than one cannon in the store? As I finish this thought, several Target cops in full riot gear march past. A gallon of milk flies past them and explodes at my feet. At the opening of the jug is a rag with its end burnt. It seems someone didn’t understand how molotov cocktails work. I grab a bottle of wine, tear off a portion of my shirt, put it in the bottle and light the end. Then I throw the bottle back to where the milk came from, so they can see how to do it.

“Look out!” Nick yells. He pulls me into the women’s clothes department just as a flurry of flaming arrows strikes the ground where we had been standing. “It’s begun,” he says. Quietly, my brother removes a home made knife from his back pocket. He cuts a line down the middle of his hand and then smears the blood across his face. “Buyer beware,” he says in a gravelly tone.

“Shopper’s delight,” I respond, laughing smugly and raising my fist for a fist bump. My brother shakes his head, gently pushes my fist down and hands me his knife. I pick up a nearby package of Hershey’s chocolate syrup, cut it open and smear its contents on my face.

“Let’s move. I need a new sweater,” Nick says, scanning the area for threats.

“I’m getting Wesley Up for Christmas. You think we got a shot at it?”

“DVD’s? It’ll be a blood bath. You ready?”

“Let’s shop.”

We break away toward the electronics–leaving civilization and full prices at our backs.